Nothing Good Happens Past 2AM
by blownwish
Summary: Bulma drunk dials Yamcha a lot. Yamcha picks up too much. The results are nothing good.


Warnings: Het, phone sex, angst, unbeta'dAuthor Notes: Inspired by DBS ep 70, "2AM" by Bear Hands, and Bulma's legendary selfishness.

Who the hell was calling at... half past two in the morning? Yamcha fumbled for the phone and groaned.

"The world better be ending."

"Maybe it is."

He sat up. It was her. "Bulma." Oh, god. "So, is it?"

"Probably. One of these days. Just not right now." Her voice was rough, slurred.

"Been drinking again?"

"Maybe."

He should have hung up. Sometimes he did, usually not. "Lemme guess: he's asleep."

She giggled. "So were you. But you don't mind when I wake you up."

"Actually, I do." He rubbed his eyes. Shit! If he knew he was going to blow his sleep schedule tonight he would have picked up a date. He needed to change his number.

One of these days.

"Aw! I thought we were friends?"

"We are. I am." He took a deep breath, knowing where this was going. Where it always went.

"Special friends. After all, we know each other, intimately." And there she went. He closed his eyes and imagined her like she was the first time she took her clothes off for him. It was like a veil dropping between them and the rest of the world. "We have our own special secrets, don't we?"

"I guess you could say that." He didn't want to do this again. She hadn't been his for so long. Would never be his, ever again.

"Talk to me, Yamcha." She was always so good at this. "You're not afraid of talking to me, right?" God, the things she said.

"I remember when you first said that." He had to smile. They were both kids in the desert. "I was so afraid of girls and you were so beautiful."

"And remember when we first made love?" She was whispering.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, Bulma..."

"Remember how you were shaking? We were both virgins but it was like you were the girl and I was the boy because you were so scared."

Scared of hurting her. Scared of making her angry. Scared of hearing a woman scream. Of being the reason she'd scream. Of being so bad, so, so bad.

"Yamcha?"

But he wasn't that scared guy anymore, afraid of what he'd become around a woman. He was no monster. He'd proven it to himself over and over. "Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah. Fantastic. Never been better."

"Sure?"

She let out a deep breath. An unsteady breath. "Sometimes I am."

"Just not right now." He let one out, too. "Right?"

"I just need a friend, that's all." This time her voice broke. Oh, no. Not that. Anything but that.

"Shhh. It's okay. Don't cry."

"But I can't help it! I'm so lonely!"

"No you're not. I'm here for you. Just take a deep breath."

She did.

"And don't drink anymore tonight. Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay. Now, I want you to get some water. You gonna do that for me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Now, hang up and do that."

"No! Stay on the phone!"

"Bulma, you need to go to sleep." So did he.

"But I need you! Please?"

God help him. "Okay, okay. I'll stay on. Just a little while longer."

"Your voice always calms me down." She sighed. "I need you."

He didn't say anything. He didn't dare.

"You can do things he never could." No. Not again. Not this. "Make me feel things he never made me feel." Her whispers were silky. Soft. Smooth.

"Like what?" Fuck!

"You want me to describe what you make me feel?"

No! He wanted her to hang up the phone and leave him alone, right? "Yeah..." Aw, fuck.

"I feel like I can forget about being sad and alone because you're still there. Like you still want me."

God, why did this always work? Why was he so pathetic? He groaned.

"Oh, Yamcha. I want you, too. I always have."

"This isn't good."

"Touch yourself." God help him, he did. "I want you in that big bed touching yourself for me."

"Bulma..."

"Maybe I touch myself and think about you and all the things we did. Like the time we did it in the shower til the water got cold? Then you took me to bed and we fucked some more?"

He closed his eyes and remembered her tight, wet body and the way she'd moan. Then she made the same sound, right there on the phone.

"Are you touching yourself, now?" He had to know.

She made the sound again.

"Baby?" He had to hear it.

"I have been. Have been, the whole time we were talking."

Was it a lie? Was it true? Was any of this true? Did it matter when the words made him this hard? "Where?"

"Between my legs. My clit."

She loved being touched and licked there. How many times did he do that for her? He could remember the way she tasted and it made him lick his lips. "Suck on your fingers."

He heard something like a slurp. This woman...! God, she knew how to make him just want to forget everything he was supposed to be.

"Do they taste good?"

"Mmmmmm."

"Oh, I bet they do. Lick them clean for me, then put them inside. Two fingers."

"Okay." God help him.

"Curl them like I used to do. Thumb on your clit. Then press up for me." She loved that. She always did. "Moan for me, baby."

"Ohhh..." And he loved it, too. Loved it and loved her, damnit! Loved the bitch with his last dying breath.

It wasn't enough. He was hard but he needed more. So much more. "Faster, baby. Say my name this time." Needed her to feel him right there again. Deep down inside her where he still wished he could be. Where he should have been all these fucking years.

"Yamcha... Yamcha..."

"You want me? So come for me. Come for me and Say my name the way you need to say it!" The way he needed to hear it.

Say it.

She let out a whimper. A low, sad note. It made his cock twitch. Then she was quiet.

"Baby?"

"Wow." There was a clicking sound. "Just... wow."

She was smoking her after-sex cigarette. Yamcha let go of his dick and thumped his forehead. "All better?"

"You are... amazing. You know that?"

"That's what they call me." Damn. It was nearly three. The alarm was going to go off in an hour and there he was, blue balled and sleep deprived. He suddenly felt a thousand years old.

Coach was just gonna love him, today. Great. Just great.

"I'm so glad we're still friends." She yawned.

"Don't forget to drink some water."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Good night, Bulma."

"'Night." And she was gone.

Yamcha hung up, got up, slipped on his shorts and padded into the kitchen. Puar was already making his coffee.

"When are you going to learn?"

He groaned. "I know, I know..."

"Nothing good happens past 2 AM, Yamcha."


End file.
